We are being mentioned....
http://www.guardian.co.uk/Saturday 20 March 2010
Diaries - Joe Sheerin
Tonight I read my first son's
childhood out. A sneak preview
I gather up his toys in armfuls
and put his books
of frog princes and wild geese and
pumpkin brides and dwarfs where they belong
He has crossed the rapid flood
into the sparse terrain where I range
Chest deep in muddy water holding
his innocence aloft like a gun, I draw
my breath in, half hoping he will drown
He shakes himself like a dog on my ground
And now neither of us can go back.
Joy - Hugo Williams
Not so much a sting
as a faint burn
not so much a pain
as the memory of pain
the memory of tears
flowing freely down cheeks
worse in the world
than stinging nettle stings
and nothing better
than cool dock leaves.
The Ball Poem - John Berryman
What is the boy now, who has lost his ball,
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over - there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight,
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour ... I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.
Vernon Watkins
It has always been an axiom of mine that a true style cannot be learnt from a contemporary. I am not suggesting that poets living at the same time cannot help each other; they can do this, profoundly, but they cannot teach a style. Style is, I believe, a root thing, and roots do not run along the surface of letters. Although poetry is always, in one sense, revolutionary, because it takes the reader by surprise, it is always its relation to the past that gives it depth. Since a poet is witness, carrying news of his time to future generations, it would seem that the sharper and clearer his perceptions are, the more acute and lasting will be his findings; and yet if clarity is the only criterion, his function will serve no better than a camera, and his art will be journalism. The perceptions of a poet must be composite, as he is a witness for the living and the dead at the same time. If he observes the two responsibilities, he will begin to see what is ancient in the contemporary scene and what is contemporary in the ancient; and his style will emerge from that collision, from that twofold perception. Only gradually does a poet find and begin to realize his particular task, for the task of each poet is different, and his true affinities in the poetry of past ages are not quickly understood. Style which has depth is recognised at once as it has immediacy, and also the corroboration of past ages; but among contemporaries it is distinction and opposition that foster style. True and different talents may feed each other, but they can only do so by obeying deep-rooted affinities, and by a divergence of style. The most fruitful relationship between contemporary poets is where a fundamental difference of style exists to serve a single truth, which then has more than one manifestation, or different truths which are bound together by affinity and indissoluble respect and affection. If we look back through the centuries of our poetry we shall find many examples of these fruitful oppositions, of two poets innately and fundamentally different in idiom and style, but often bound by friendship and a common theme, whose work has been strengthened, not by competition, but by the assurance and expectation of works from a complementary talent. I think of Hopkins and Bridges, Browning and Landor, Shelley and Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge, Shakespeare, Marlowe and Ben Jonson, to name only a few; and European poetry is equally rich in these examples. Lyrically every poet is alone, but in the range of his development no poet is alone. Style is a root thing; development is something which unfolds.
Incandesent 18th March 2010
1. Hillary Llewellyn-Williams. 'No.7' from the 'Persephone' section of Greenland. Micheal.
2. John Berryman - 'The Ball Poem'. Juliette.
3. Hillary Llewellyn-Williams. 'No.1' from the 'Persephone' section of Greenland. Micheal.
4. Joe Sheerin 'Diaries'. Juliette.
5. Poem from Phillip Gross' 'Watertable'. Micheal.
6. Hugo Williams - 'Joy'. Juliette.
7. A piece of prose by Vernon Watkins about poetry. Juliette.
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